


A High Place

by zombiefreckles



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Hunting, M/M, PWP, Sub Arthur Morgan, Trans Charles, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiefreckles/pseuds/zombiefreckles
Summary: Takes place starting with the bison-killers quest.





	A High Place

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place starting with the bison-killers quest.

 

* * *

 

“Kill him,” Charles said. So Arthur did. A little pleasure like that was hard to come by.

            Arthur followed Charles back to the overlook, reaching behind him every so often in case the bison skin somehow disappeared. The cliffs of the heartlands turned into stacks of gold under the setting sun. There was something so precious about this righteous anger of Charles’, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders, and Arthur savored it.

 

* * *

 

            The ends of the preacher man’s white shift went gray in the cold, cold river. Arthur waited for him to detect his presence.

            The preacher blinked in his face, like he was waking up. “I asked him for a message,” he said, knee-deep in a conversation Arthur had just dipped his toe in, “and he gave me the whole world!”

            “That weren’t enough?” Arthur asked.

            “No! Not nearly!” The preacher’s teeth chattered. “I’m greedy. I’m so greedy!” And he stepped out, leaving Arthur with water splashing over his knees.

            “I know the feeling,” Arthur muttered—to whom, he didn’t know, as the preacher had curled up on his blanket and passed out. Water dripped in over the tops of Arthur’s boots, and he sucked his teeth and hopped out of the river. He got back on the horse, took off his boots to let his wool socks dry, and rode back to the overlook. He needed to ask Charles something.

            But at the overlook, tents were taken down, and everyone was packing the wagons. Dutch got his attention and sent him to look at a place in Lemoyne.

            “Take Charles,” Dutch told him.

            Arthur trotted off to find him and they rode. The gang would expect them to help put up camp in the new place, but for the time being, they’d have a whole afternoon to explore this patch of dirt Micah found. It wouldn’t do for greed to be rewarded like this, hard to come by as it was.

            But then Charles spotted the body, and there was the German family, and their unchosen company, and when all the members of the van der Linde family were at their new home, Charles and Arthur were obliged to spend hours helping settle everything. When it was getting dark, Arthur found Charles on the edge of the lake, watching the water settle down to sleep.

            “Charles.”

            Charles turned for a second. He held something in his hands. “Arthur.”

            Arthur’s boots crunched in the gritty lake sand. “Don’t suppose there’re bison in this part of the country.”

            “You never know,” said Charles.

            “Oh, no?”

            “No.” Charles was smiling. There was just enough light to see. “No bison in this part of the country.”

            “What’s hunting then?”

            “Hmm.” Charles let the thing in his hands drop; it was a pebble, and it plinked into the lake. Silky ripples slinked over the surface. “Ducks,” Charles murmured. “Geese. Some boars would be good.”

            “How many?”

            “As many as we can get.”

 

* * *

 

            “There’re no boar here, Charles.”

            “Shut it.” Charles smiled less when there was more than enough light to see it. West of Rhodes, the land wasn’t so flat and wet. They cut off the path, hitched their horses, and took down their bedrolls.

            “Where are we going?” said Arthur.

            “I’m tired of hiding in the trees.” Charles tossed his bedroll onto a tower of rock. “I want to be under the sky. Help me up.”

            “I don’t—” Arthur stopped himself for a second and did as Charles told. He heaved him onto the rock and handed him up his bedroll. “I don’t want to be seen.”

            “We won’t,” said Charles. “This is too high up.”

            “You sure?”

            “Come and see.”

            Charles pulled him up. He was right. There was even tree cover between them and the road. Of course Charles found the perfect spot. He always did.

            “Put the bedrolls down,” Charles said.

            Arthur did, side by side, where feathery clouds passed over them.

            “I wish we could put the camp up here,” said Charles, lying next to Arthur.

            “Me too.” Arthur held up his hat, shading Charles’ eyes and turning away from the sun. “You feeling cooped up?”

            “Yeah.” Charles nodded. “I can’t stop . . . looking for signs and tracks. Only time I feel I don’t have to is when . . . uh. . . .” He stopped. He took in a deep breath, like he was filling his lungs for the first time in forever. “It’s easier when it’s just us.” He smiled for a second. “Never have to track _you_ down.”

            “Aw, shut up,” Arthur said, even as Charles pulled him against the side of his body.

            A wind picked up, raising goose pimples over Arthur’s neck. Charles pressed his lips to them until Arthur squirmed, bathed in alternating waves of cold and warm. “Charles,” he whispered, “hurry, I’m ready.”

            “I’m not,” said Charles.

            “I wanna touch you.”

            “Go on, then.”

            Arthur undid the knot of Charles’ trousers and reached down to where it was warm and wet. Charles sighed against Arthur’s shoulder, raising more goosebumps. There was so much skin—Charles had undone the buttons of Arthur’s shirt before he noticed. Charles’ tongue was on him and he was jealous—would much rather have his mouth full of Charles than the other way around. So Arthur asked, “What do you want me to do?”

            “I brought oil,” said Charles. “Want to fuck you. Want your fingers inside me first.”

            Arthur took the oil that Charles gave him and prepped his hand. When he reached down again, the drag that made Charles sigh became a slick slide that stoppered his breath in his chest.

            When Charles said “I want to fuck you” it meant he would hold Arthur by the shoulders, sit on him, and take his pleasure on his cock or his mouth. He didn’t stop until Arthur was fucked apart, and even then, Arthur would sometimes ask—beg—for just a little more.

            With Arthur’s hand on him, Charles squirmed, kicked off his trousers, and let the sun shine down on the backs of his thighs. The movement spread wetness over Arthur’s hand, and he pressed his palm over Charles’ clit for him to grind against. Charles pulled himself into Arthur’s lap, rocking slow. That was Charles’ devastating trick, and it unraveled Arthur from the skin inwards: that Charles fucked like they had all the time in the world, that neither of them had to go sweating and snorting to climb to that perfect spot. That when Arthur grit his teeth with effort, it was just to stay still, to let Charles move him like a plaything. It made Arthur’s cock throb, and Charles felt it. He shifted his weight on top and pinned it. “Hold on there, partner.”

            “I’m holding on,” said Arthur. “No hurry. I’m only hard as a rock here.”

            “That’s too bad.” Arthur caught his quick smile, and then Charles moved up and pressed his soft cheek to the stubble of Arthur’s. “Okay, Arthur, inside.”

            Arthur made sure his fingers were slick enough, and then glided one down between Charles’ lips. He sank his finger in and found a spot so hot it felt it could burn.

            “Mmm-hmm,” Charles hummed into Arthur’s ear. He inched forward, his weight on Arthur’s hand, leaving Arthur’s cock with no more friction than the cloth of his trousers. Arthur trailed his finger against Charles’ inner walls. He stroked and pressed, and Charles whispered, “Yes. . . .”

            “You want more?”

            “Yes.”

            Arthur pulled his finger out and then pushed back in with a pair. He caught Charles’ face twitching with effort, and his cunt squeezed and then stretched before Charles pushed himself onto Arthur’s fingers. Arthur’s cock jumped, and he was grateful that Charles had unbuttoned Arthur’s shirt and was scratching his fingers through the patch of hair on his chest.

            Then Arthur said, “Please, Charles more.”

            Charles nodded, and undid Arthur’s belt. He snaked a hand down until his fingers found the head of his cock, teasing it.

            “Come on.” Arthur squeezed his side. “I’m gonna finish like this if we don’t—”

            “All right, all right.” Charles gave a breathy laugh, and all was forgiven. He helped Arthur pull his pants down and away. “One of these days we’ve got to teach you some patience.”

            “I got patience for days, Charles.” He watched Charles balance himself over Arthur’s cock. “Just none at the moment.”

            Every smile he got out of Charles was a victory. It was why it was so sweet to have Charles set the pace, even when he played with Arthur’s sensitive cock-head brushing against his clit. Arthur put his hands in a steady grip on Charles’ generous thighs, not letting himself clutch or dig his nails in until Charles asked for it. It was so rare Arthur could give Charles something. So Arthur set his jaw and let Charles toy with his cock until he saw fit to line it up, and let it ease inside.

            Charles fucked him, rocking, twisting, squeezing, tormenting the sensitive cock until Arthur’s eyes stung and he squeezed them shut. Charles’ arms shook, and he fell forward with his weight on Arthur’s chest, face buried in his neck. Arthur brushed his hair aside, and caught his ear in his mouth. He fretted with it and Charles pressed his mouth against Arthur’s flesh, smothering his noises so that only Arthur could hear. Charles’ skin was salty and soft, and his hair still held the campfire scent. With his eyes closed, Arthur could almost think they were at a hearth, lying in a real house, while the world settled down to bed.

            “Arthur,” said Charles into the curve of his shoulder. “Come back. I can tell you’re thinking.”

            “I’m here.” Arthur squeezed the backs of Charles’ thighs to prove it. “I’m not thinking about anything.”

            “Yes, you are,” said Charles, breathing the words, his body starting to coil. He pushed back up, his hands on Arthur’s chest, grinding until Arthur began to shake. Charles gave him a crooked smile. “That the spot, huh?”

            Arthur swallowed and answered, “Yeah.”

            Charles hummed. “Put your hand on me.”

            He almost shook too much to do it, but he brought a hand to the hood of Charles clit and circled. Every time his concentration flagged Charles whispered, “Hang on, Arthur, not yet.”

            “Dammit, Charles,” he said, his resistance failing. Arthur’s gut screwed up and curled up like a wood shaving when the fire takes it, and then he spilled inside Charles while he hummed and kept on rocking.

            “Hold on,” Charles said again.

            “I know, I know.” Arthur clamped his free hand down on Charles’ legs while he fucked him through it. It dripped down and grew chilly on Arthur’s thighs, became messy around Charles’ clit while Charles urged, “Hold on, move, Arthur, _move_.”

            Arthur canted his hips up, deeper into the sensation that was so good it stung, that made him want more than anything to shy away from it, not dive further into it, but more than that, he wanted to do what Charles asked. Arthur answered the twisting of Charles’ hips with his own until Charles’ thighs tried to close around him. He shivered and clenched and panted hard against the side of Arthur’s heated face. Arthur took the opportunity to press his mouth to Charles’ shoulder, to the rough weave of the shirt he was still wearing, and bury the groan that his second, weary, desperate climax wrung from him.

            Charles breathed in his ear, taking his pleasure until the two of them were so sensitive it was all they could just to hold fast to each other. His teeth were in the flesh of Arthur’s throat and he ground them in further with every pulse. His body clung so tight to Arthur’s cock he had to reach down and ease it out, muscles jumping when it was free. Charles rolled off him, batting away the hand that Arthur still tried to hold between his legs like it was his job.

“You good, Arthur?”

            “Yeah,” Arthur said, tongue heavy in his mouth. He swallowed to fix his dry throat and said, “You got a tear in your shirt. On the shoulder.”

            Charles laughed. “I know, Arthur.”

Arthur put his head up on Charles’ shoulder, entertaining thoughts of that hearth again, and his clumsy, thick fingers trying to get a needle threaded in the firelight. From this angle, he couldn’t see the horizon, just the curve of Charles’ body meeting the softening blue sky. The world was turning fast, and if they didn’t hurry it would be too dark to hunt.

 

* * *

 

            “Do it,” said Charles. “Now, Arthur.”

            Arthur relaxed his fingers. The arrow entered the boar right under the ear: the perfect shot, at the perfect moment. Charles was right. He was always right.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a nice poem called "Nullo" by Jean Toomer:
> 
> A spray of pine-needles,  
> Dipped in western horizon gold,  
> Fell onto a path.  
> Dry mounds of cow-hoofs.  
> In the forest.  
> Rabbits knew not of their falling,  
> Nor did the forest catch aflame.


End file.
